Generation
by Shembre
Summary: While helping Dom and Mal train a certain Point Man, Eames reflects on who he is. Prequel to "Forged." Pre-Inception, no slash, rated for violence and cursing at the beginning.
1. Part 1

**(A/N: Prequel-ish story to "Forged." It was originally called "Betrayal and Consequence," but "Generation" suits this story better.)**

Generation

By Shembre

"Are you two ready to talk?"

Eames looked up and shook his head.

Under Eames's finger sliced the knife blade, peeling back his thumbnail like the rind of an orange. Searing pain flowed up from his finger, through the bones of his forearm, to his elbow. He flexed and curled the fingers of his throbbing hand, from which every hard bit of keratin had been torn up by the root. The pain migrated up to his shoulder. Five red-smeared nails scattered the concrete floor with drying flecks of blood. Frayed, nylon ropes dug into Eames's bare forearms and kept him strapped down to the arms of his chair.

"Darling, you should really work on your manicuring skills." Eames gave a breathless laugh. The ropes across his chest strained when he took a breath of sour, stale air. "The current state of my cuticles just won't do. I'd hate to see what your pedicures are like."

When the knife prodded his naked, raw, and bloody nail beds, Eames sucked in a breath and bit the inside of his cheeks. He summoned all his will when he locked eyes with the long-faced, fair-skinned man who preferred to extract information the slow and tedious way.

The man with his knife took a step back and sighed and scratched the tip of his slightly hooked nose. The horrible, florescent lights in the unfinished basement sharpened the shadows on his angular face. He raised a blood-tinged hand to smooth back his black, slicked-back hair. He then turned to the younger man who was strapped to another chair opposite of Eames.

"And what about you? Hmm?" the man asked Arthur. "Ready to talk?"

Shivering with anger and fear, Arthur shook his head. The left side of his face was bruised, and the thugs who'd captured them had split Arthur's upper lip open, but he was otherwise unharmed.

_Yet…_ Eames thought.

Arthur swallowed thickly but only shook his head again.

_Good lad._

"Well, okay then."

The man returned his attention to Eames and pressed the cold, wet blade against the cartilage of the forger's ear. Eames tried to twist away, but the man grabbed a fist full of brown hair between his fingers and wrenched— a game of tug-of-war with the roots buried in Eames's scalp.

"One more time," the man said calmly. "What did you find when you were in Jack Moller's head?"

"Piss off…" Eames hissed. Inwardly he cringed when Arthur stiffened and widened his eyes. Eames muttered less strongly, "Just shove that tool of yours up your arse."

Sharp pain drilled into Eames's head as the blade pierced his ear drum.

Half of the world seemed to empty out of his ear canal, and everything went mute on that side of his head.

He couldn't help but cry out in agony.

His temple pulsed rapidly. Blood ran down his jaw and neck.

"F-f-fuck!"

When the man removed his knife, he punched Eames's wounded ear.

Eames's vision spun horribly from the collision—his stomach hitched, jostling up his throat as if it were riding the vertebrae of his neck. He clenched his eyes shut and held in his other screams and the contents of his turned stomach.

"I've always heard that pain is in the mind, gentlemen," the man said, voice slightly muffled and vaguely distant. "I bet you two wish you were still dreaming. I could do this all day and all night. I sleep little."

"Is that so?" Eames gritted out between his clenched jaws.

Now the knife tip balanced on the top of his thigh. "Yes." The man placed half his weight on the knife.

_Who knew Mal could be so sadistic... I wonder if Cobb knows? I know this is part of Arthur's training, to prepare him for the worst of the dreamshare, but she's doing quite the convincing job of it all. Perhaps she's even surpassed my skills as a forger._

"We're not gonna tell you a thing if it's information that you want," Arthur spoke up. His voice broke from nerves when he uttered the first 'you' and 'thing,' but otherwise held steady.

"Every man has his limits," the tall man Mal was masquerading as replied.

The knife cut deep, opening up a long wound from the middle of Eames's thigh to his kneecap. Eames yelped, but quickly caught his tongue between his teeth.

"What did you mean by 'if it's information you want?'" The tall man walked over to Arthur. "Of course it's information that I want."

"You could hire us," Arthur replied, though the way his voice turned up at the end made his suggestion sound like a question. "Is there someone better you'd want some dirt on?"

"I am not interested. I only—_only_—want the information you found while in Jack Moller's head."

_Nice try, Arthur. This isn't a lesson on how to get out of torture. It's a lesson on how to withstand it until they stop toying with you and throw you away like garbage._

Arthur's face fell slightly and the shadows under his eyes deepened. Regardless, he said quietly, "Then I think we've reached an impasse."

The man tsked. "Like I said, every man has his limits."

Eames shut his eyes when the man grabbed Arthur's earlobe. The young man cried out, and when Eames opened his eyes, he saw that Mal's knife had sawed away the lower half of Arthur's ear, which now lay on the basement floor.

"So I'm deaf and he's just can't get that ear pierced?" Eames complained. He was sure he was shouting.

_The projections should be here soon to save Arthur. I can already hear a row on the streets above us._

Arthur's upper lip curled and his skin looked ashen and sweaty. Tears of pain stood in his narrowed eyes. He glared at Eames and then at their bloody-fingered tormentor.

"Either of you had enough?" The dark-haired figure circled back towards Eames. "No? Well, I'm willing to make one deal…" The man slowly smiled. "First one to tell me what I want gets to live."

"We'll never tell you anything," Arthur said angrily. He sat up a little straighter now, while the blood trickled down his face and onto his shoulder. The blood blossomed on the fabric of his shirt. Arthur set his gaze on Eames.

His eyes pleaded with Eames.

He expected Eames to play along.

Teamwork.

_I get that you want to stick together, but never expect to get caught with someone so trustworthy…_

Eames felt the words cross his lips, and they felt dirtier than all of the profanity in his vocabulary. "We extracted information from Jack Moller regarding his affairs with prostitutes."

"Why?"

While Arthur remained silent, and gave Eames a 'fuck you!' glare, the latter looked up at the man and continued, "Because his prostitutes were sex slaves. The person who hired us wished to expose Moller's affairs to the public as a trafficking scandal."

Arthur furiously struggled against the ropes strapping his forearms to his chair.

"Good boy."

Eames winced and averted his eyes when he saw the gun. Before Arthur could react, the man shot him three times in the chest. Arthur's head went forward and he went limp as his life spurted out of the gaping holes.

"I think you liked this a little too much, Mal." When Eames closed his eyes and opened them again, the man had reshaped himself into the brown-haired French woman.

"I think you did, too, a little, Eames," she replied without pleasure. "And I told you I'd get you back for insulting my cooking." She rested her hand on his shoulder.

"All I said was that vegetables alone isn't a dinner. You just couldn't throw me some meat, could you? I'm a growing man." He then looked at the ropes on his arms. "We're getting out of here soon, but would you mind…?"

Mal took her bloodied knife and cut Eames free. He stood up and looked over at where Arthur had been sitting, but only found an empty chair and some blood.

"Don't think we scared the lad off, eh?"

"I think it will take more than this to do so," Mal replied. "He showed courage."

"Even when most of us would be shitting ourselves," Eames added, rubbing his sore arms. He bent down to pick up one of his bloody fingernails at his feet.

* * *

Eames opened his eyes and immediately looked over to the thin, young man up on the couch. Arthur was just sitting up, and from his view on the floor, Eames could tell he was trying to hide how rattled he was.

"How'd it go?"

"Right as it could," Eames told Cobb. He looked to his right and saw that Mal was sitting up from her position on the floor, too. He sat up as well. He watched Arthur again, but then self-consciously averted his eyes. "You know… torture and all that business."

"Are you all right, Arthur?" Mal asked, standing up and sitting down on the couch next to the young man.

Arthur's eyes shifted to Mal, but he did not move otherwise.

"Check your totem," Cobb ordered. He was standing in the middle of the den room with his arms crossed over his chest, like a father telling a child to double-check a homework assignment.

Arthur still didn't move, but he shrunk away under Mal's hand, and only relaxed when she removed it.

"Check your totem," Cobb repeated. "You know it was a dream, but it's a good habit to have."

Arthur nodded and came out of his trance. He stuck his hand into a pants pocket. The bright, shiny, red die rolled over the palm of his hand as he fondled it with his long fingers.

"We want to prepare you for the worst. Dreaming can accomplish everything, but there are consequences," Mal remarked. "You might run into the wrong people. We make deals with the devil sometimes so we can dream freely."

"I understand." Arthur sat there for a moment before he shook his head slightly and stood up. He nodded to Mal and Cobb, but ignored Eames. Before anyone could answer him properly, as he was walking out of the room, he muttered, "Will you excuse me a minute?"

When they heard the bathroom door close, Cobb rubbed his face and sighed. "He just needs time to take all of this in. He understands that we've all been through this training, right?" He looked at Mal.

She nodded. "We told him before we started the exercise."

Eames's chest tightened a little. The 'exercise' was something he had picked up while in the military. In the military, aside from its use as a training medium, the exercise was also used as a simulation for if you were captured by the enemy and held as a prisoner of war. He'd helped over a hundred men complete the exercise, just like with Arthur, and every new soldier had given Eames the same, awful, betrayed look of hatred—the treachery of someone offering you up as a sacrifice. Trading your life for their own, as if theirs was more valuable. Most participants moved on, and chalked the experience up as a generally unpleasant initiation…

_Let's just hope that our little would-be point man moves forward, too._


	2. Part 2

**(A/N: Part 2!)**

Arthur emerged from the bathroom when Mal called him for dinner, almost two hours later. He silently picked at his chicken, potatoes, and fresh roll.

After eating a bite or two, Arthur looked up and politely asked to be excused.

"Yes, of course, dear," Mal said with a nod and a slight, uneasy smile. "Get some rest."

Arthur pushed in his chair and left to hide out in Phillipa's bedroom, which was where he was staying while Mal's parents watched the little girl.

Eames reclined in his chair. He hadn't really touched his plate of food either, and when he scanned the table, he could see that Cobb was the only one who'd really eaten anything.

_Lucky bastard… and here I've waited all day for this meal._

After a while of further silence, Eames gave a cough and brought Mal and Cobb out of their thoughts. "I think I'll go back to my hotel a little early."

"But you've left most of your dinner…" Mal said, looking at his plate. Her eyes shifted to Arthur's plate and she deflated a little. "Would you like your food to go?"

Eames smiled. "That'd be lovely if you'd be so kind…"

Mal smiled back, got up from the table, grabbed his plate, and went into the kitchen.

Cobb looked over when Eames stood up and pushed his chair in. "Be back tomorrow at eight. Phillipa is gone for one more day and I want to make the most of it. I have an idea I'd like to test."

"Hmm." Eames heard the metallic scrape as Mal transferred his food off his plate. "It's still all work while the little one is gone? You're really not going to spend time alone with the ol' ball-'n'-chain, eh?" Eames remarked, and a second later someone jabbed him in the side. He turned and grinned mischievously at Mal. She shoved a plastic Tupperware full of leftovers into his hands and he chuckled.

"We're taking time to specifically work with and train Arthur," Cobb said. Mal walked to his side and he rubbed her shoulder. "As much as we'd like a vacation from life with a two-year-old, we still have to work."

"Not to mention that I'll be taking time off later this year," Mal added with a smile. She glanced at Cobb, and that was all Eames needed.

"Another baby?" he guessed. "When?"

Cobb chuckled. "Around Thanksgiving… isn't that what the doctor said, honey?"

"Yes, Dom."

"Well, isn't that fantastic news." Eames leaned in and shook Mal's hand before shaking her husband's. "Congratulations. You'll have your hands full. I can't imagine."

"Have you ever thought about having kids of your own one day, Eames?" Mal asked.

"Can't really say I have, but never say never," Eames said quickly. He wanted to skip over the discussion where parents try to tell childless people that kids made life worth it, rather than making life all the more complicated.

The married couple followed him to the door. Mal pulled Eames's light coat from the closet nearby and handed it to him. He filled out the sleeves and adjusted his collar.

"Thanks again for the leftovers, Mal. Bringing back the container bright and early," he said, free hand on the doorknob. He turned it and walked out as Mal and Cobb wished him good-night. His rental was parked on the street, and when he got in, the blue glow of the dash clock read 8:32 pm.

"Well, I don't see why my night really has to end here…" Eames muttered under his breath as he strapped in, pulled away from the curb, and drove towards his hotel.

* * *

Eames sat in the bar, and after four drinks, he realized he was having an increasingly difficult time blocking out the image of Arthur's betrayed face.

_It's basic soldier training. I've seen hundreds of men like Arthur go through the same thing. Why's he any different?_

Because there was no true battlefield in the dreamshare. There was no true, singular enemy to counter with a whole army behind you. Just a lot of scumbags who wouldn't think twice about snuffing out a person's light if the price suited them. And the likelihood of someone coming after that scumbag after your death depended upon the loyalty and resources of anyone who gave a shit about you.

His tab paid and a beer bottle in hand, Eames wandered up the floors of the hotel to his room. Between Arthur's damn face and Mal's torture, he knew he would have hard time of it that night, though he cringed when he caught a look at the clock next to the bed.

_Not even midnight yet?_

After showering and getting ready for bed, he clicked on the television and waded through the channels. It was a week night, so the late-night talk shows were gearing up. When he saw an interview with one of his favorite actresses, he quit channel surfing, even though he didn't pay much attention. His mind wandered off without him.

_Maybe betraying the poor chap would've been easier if I'd been forging, too. I could have hid myself. But I didn't. I wonder if Arthur thinks I'd sell him down the river now. How did Mal pull off the whole medieval inquisition act? I've never seen anything like it. She put on a good show. I wonder how Arthur will be tomorrow. He'll probably still be his ol' stick-up-his-arse self again. He probably won't even acknowledge today, which I guess is all well and good, but here I am worrying about someone who's just getting his first run through the system, who probably knows that, and who probably would rather just get all past it quick. And how do Mal and Cobb think they're going to keep up their workload with another kid? I mean, things happen, and I s'pose it's in their right to have a family, but I don't envy those kids—that's just plain unfair to the little buggers—_

Eames thought he heard a knock at the door, but wasn't sure at first. He tilted his head to the side, and sure enough, there was another knock.

_Who could that be?_

When he cautiously checked the peep-hole, to his surprise, he found Arthur standing on the other side of the door.

_Speak of the devil… I guess Mal brought him on for a reason, the sneaky whelp. Tracked me down… but why?_

He rolled his shoulders, semi-registering that he'd tensed up. "Just be a second," Eames spoke to the door. He watched Arthur's eyes widen at his voice. The young man nodded and took a step away from the door, hands in his pockets.

Eames put his day clothes back on before finally opening the door.

"What're you doing here?"

"As you'd imagine, I couldn't sleep." Probably without knowing it, Arthur brushed his fingers against the ear that had been sliced off his head during the training exercise. He rolled his eyes. "Not to mention that when you left, Mal and Cobb wouldn't stop coming to my door like I was their kid."

_So I wasn't just the only one worrying for nothing._

"Ah," Eames said. "And so you wound up here? Of all places?"

"You weren't hard to find."

"I didn't mean _how._ I meant _why._ What're you doing here, Arthur?"

Arthur blinked, but then glanced away for a moment, fidgeting a little on his feet. "I wanted to ask some questions."

"Point man questions?"

"Kinda." There was the hint of a headshake. "I just wanna get a few things straight."

Eames leaned against the door frame and felt the weight of the hotel door resting against his palm. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"I've just got a couple questions. I won't take much of your time."

"Now you sound like a door-to-door salesman. I think you'd be good at that."

Arthur shuffled one foot in a lazy half-stomp. He lifted his chin slightly. "Look, I'd rather not talk to Mal about this. I'm sure even someone like you could guess why."

"Someone… like me?" Eames narrowed his eyes. "What's that even mean?"

"Well—" Arthur stumbled. "I meant… Wh—and Mal might also tell Cobb, and she'd get worried…"

Eames held the door open with his bare toes and crossed his arms, smirking as Arthur tried to find his words.

Arthur's expression only became more frustrated. He then muttered under his breath, "Waste of my time," and turned around without even saying good-bye.

Eames chuckled to himself and took a step outside the door when Arthur had reached the elevator four doors down. He called, "Fine, I'll listen to your questions."

Arthur turned and blinked in surprise. He then regained his composure by lifting his chin slightly, though he glanced at the elevator when the doors slid open. He walked back and Eames let him into the room. Arthur stood watching the television while Eames closed the door and observed his guest for a moment, noticing how he stood with his back straight, feet apart, and head up.

_Definitely not the runt he was when they first brought him on. At least in appearance._

"So what's this all about then, hmm?" Eames asked.

"Oh, uh…" Arthur turned around. "I've just got a couple things to ask."

"Yeah? Shoot."

Arthur stared back with a toned-down look in his eyes that vaguely mirrored the same shard of betrayal he'd given during the training exercise. "I want to know, that if the Cobbs or I need your particular abilities in the future, on a real job, that I can trust you."

Eames shrugged. "It was just a training exercise. I was supposed to betray you."

Arthur frowned and stared. "I won't put my life in the hands of someone who'd turn me over in a heartbeat the second things go south, Eames."

"And do you get the impression that I would? Someone like me? Whatever that means?"

Arthur hesitated and then gave a little smirk. "No. I just want your word, so that if something _does_ happen, and you go against your word, then I or someone else has permission to hunt you down."

Eames chuckled. "All right, I s'pose you can trust me, yes," Eames relented, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's next? You said you had more?"

"Yes, one more question." Arthur glanced at his shoes before looking up again. "Okay… Why do you do it?"

"It? The dreamshare you mean?"

Arthur nodded. Amazingly, the distrust melted away into curiosity.

Eames waited a moment before he responded plainly, "Does a person have to have a reason to go into the dreamshare?"

"I'd like to hear if you've got one."

"Arthur, that _is_ my reason. There's nothing else like it. Nothing."

The younger man blinked and his brow furrowed in disappointment. "That's it?"

_Of course that's not all of it, but I'm not about to spill my bloody guts on the floor._

Eames smirked and nodded. "Yes. Now are you done interrogating me?" His smirk grew tighter.

Arthur hesitated for a moment, but then said, "Yes. That's all. Thank you for your time."

"There's that salesman thing again." When Arthur walked past him, Eames slapped him on the back. "Consider that as a fallback career. It's a hell of a lot safer."

Arthur looked over his shoulder and gave him the eye. He seemed to be thinking for a moment before it passed. They were at the door and Eames let Arthur out.

"See you tomorrow," Arthur said before walking down the hotel corridor.

Eames waved, and out of habit he looked both ways down the corridor before shutting the door and sliding in the door chain. Then he went and sat down on the bed.

_"Why do you do it?"_

_"Why do you do it?"_

_"Why do you do it?"_

Arthur's words had lodged between his ears. Eames _did_ do it because there was nothing else like the dreamshare. It was forgiving and unforgiving, thrilling and terrifying. He could be one person and then wake up again as himself. How many people had that ability? Except for other forgers and those with multiple personalities, of course. But the more familiar he became with the people he needed to forge… the less he liked himself, and the more he saw of them in himself. The only upside to the job, was that some of the real bastards got what was coming to them, and sometimes the good people came out for the better. But mostly the good people got screwed.

And what bugged him was how Arthur had said, _"Someone like you."_

_What's that even mean? What kind of a person does he think I am?_

Eames dressed again for bed, turned out the lights, switched off the television, and got under the covers. He could hear the low hum of the room heater and the fan in the bathroom, which smelled faintly of mildew. Light seeped into the main room from under the bathroom door, and he lay with his nose pointed to the ceiling. With a sigh, he tried to silence his mind. His fingers laced over his chest. He knew of people who, when they were in a natural sleep, reflexively slept with their arms stretched out, ready for a needle.

He made a living sleeping and dreaming, but rest did not come to him that night.

**(A/N: No conclusion was really reached in this story, like there is in "Forged," but I kind of wanted it that way.)**


End file.
